


The Stubbornness of Dwarves

by madame_faust



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Ending, Gen, Kink Meme, no one you love dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:53:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the Hobbit Kink Meme: "Dwarves are travelling through the village that Thorin is situated in. They need to get new blades, but don't trust anything not of dwarf make. They discover that there is a Dwarf smith and go to him, not realizing he is the king under the mountain. They barter with Thorin until an appallingly low price has been agreed on and leave, never thinking of it again.</p>
<p>Years later, after Erebor has been retaken and repaired, they encounter the great king. (Kili, Fili, and Thorin didn't die)Thorin doesn't recognize him, and thinks nothing of it. The other dwarves, however do. They choose to remain silent."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stubbornness of Dwarves

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer - I own nothing and I am not profiting from this story. The names of the OCs come from Tolkien's extended works. They had accent marks, but I am too lazy to copy and paste those in for anyone but my favorite characters.
> 
> The original prompt and fill can be read here - http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3138.html?thread=4206658#t4206658

Dwarves were renowned for their stubbornness, it was common knowledge even among those who had never seen a dwarf up close. “You're stubborn as a dwarf!” a mother might say to a child who refused supper. “Well, if you're going to be so dwarf-stubborn about it, you can get yourself another lass!” a girl would say to a courting beau who was slow about asking her hand in marriage. Dwarves tended not to think of themselves as stubborn, though. If you asked one, he might say he was stouthearted, loyal or simply _right_. But never stubborn.   
  
_Khim_ , Mim decided, _is too stubborn for his own good._ Mim was traveling with his cousins Khim and Ibun through a village of Men, one of many they looped through every few years. They were gentledwarves of the road, which was a polite way of saying they were drifters. They were also gentledwarves of fortune, which was a polite way of saying they were thieves.   
  
In a way their lot proved all those rumors that got started about dwarves, Mim supposed, as his cousin prattled on and on and _on_ about how dull his throwing knives had gotten and there wasn't a smithy among Men who could sharpen them worth a damn. Dwarves are stubborn – well, Khim certainly was. Dwarves steal – heh, guilty as charged. Dwarves'll drink all your ale and fight the landlord – Ibun had a temper on him and a nasty right hook. Little wonder they weren't much liked among their kindred. Dwarves had long memories, especially for troublemakers, so they spend as little time among their people as they could manage so as not to be brought before the law. Today, though, Khim seemed downright homesick with his squaking.  
  
“Stuff it, would you?” Ibun growled. His hood was pulled low over his eyes and he seemed to be feeling the effects of the noonday sun moreso than his kin. Mim told him to lay off the hard stuff when they were to be traveling, but Ibun ignored his wise counsel. Stubborn. Just like his thrice-damned brother.  
  
“I'd stuff it if it didn't mean next time we're set upon along some roadside our knives are too dull to cut butter,” Khim grumbled.  
  
“You ought to have had them sharpened last time before we left Rohan, then,” Mim replied, a hint of I-told-you-so in his voice and expression.  
  
“The Men of Rohan care more for their horses than their crafts,” Khim replied, rolling his eyes as though he was the only one with any brains among them.   
  
“Care more for their horses than their lassies,” Ibun snickered.  
  
Mim shot Ibun an amused look. “Did you _see_ their lassies? Not a scrap of meat on their bones, I'd prefer the horses too.” He did get a few locks of lovely golden hair off a few tavern wenches who'd imbibed more than they ought. Should fetch a pretty penny with a wig maker. “I heard some of those sad souls from Erebor travel round these parts, I'd be surprised if there's not a smith among them.”  
  
Ibun snorted derisively. “'Sad souls,' eh? What'd they expect, sitting atop a hoard like they had. Far's I'm concerned they got no less than what was coming to them.”  
  
Mim tutted. “Come, let's think charitably. Surely you got a tricket or two you could shine up and sell to some homesick goodwife? Saved from the crumbling fortress by your very own...grandfather, father, pick one! The problem with you lot is you don't see how bad situations can work out for some. So I say pity the poor sods of Erebor and let's not waste the chance to fill our pockets and get poor little Khim here to stop whinging.”

They did manage to find a dwarf smith nearby, reckoned to be one of the best. Set up shop with his sister and their kinfolk, lass was said to have two wee lads near back-to-back before her husband bit it. Mim didn't need to look, he knew Ibun's eyes were lit up at the mention of the young widow. He always did have a way with the ladies.   
  
Wasn't too hard to find the forge, dwarf smiths were rare enough in these parts not to attract notice and this lot appeared to be so skillfull that, despite the poor reputation dwarrows had among Men, they were very popular.  
  
The forge was blistering hot, at the moment pots were being pounded out by a big, bald, brute in the back. The sight of him made Khim wary enough step back and put a hand on one of his dull knives. The tattoos marked him as a warrior, but what sort of warrior set up shop in a village of Men and toiled away making cooking pots? Mim thought he might sidle up to him in a pub, ask what he thought of going on the road? The three of them were strong and clever enough with weapons, all Dwarves were, but it never hurt to have some extra muscle on your side, did it?  
  
They were greeted, not by the big fellow, but another dwarf whose long hair was already matted down with sweat. His beard was short, though he was not young. Torn in grief, Mim would guess. Probably had some relations who met a nasty end, maybe fell at Azanulbizar. Well, surely he could come up with a few trinkets from the battlefield as quickly as he could treasures from Erebor. Their folk hard sharp eyes for gems and could tell the value of things more easily than Men, but grief could make fools of Dwarves as easily as anyone else.  
  
“What's your business?” the short-bearded dwarf asked them impatiently. For a lowly smith, he had an arrogance about him that Khim didn't like. It was a way of holding his head that gave of an air of self-possession the poor usually had beaten out of them by the time they were this dwarf's age.   
  
Khim dumped his knives on the worn, makeshift counter of their stall and announced, “These need to be sharpened. I'll be back in an hour.”  
  
The smithy looked down at him (tall for a dwarf, Mim noticed, _very_ tall for a poor dwarf...maybe some good blood ran in those veins – bastard son of nobility – perhaps he was in the market for an heirloom from Durin's halls) and frowned. “We'll have it done day after tomorrow, not before.”  
  
Khim frowned back and one of his feet started tapping. They'd gone miles out of their way in search of a dwarf smith and this one said he was too busy? The nerve. From the old sweat stains on his tunic, he doubted he was rolling in money. How prideful could one poor smith be? “Longest I can wait is tomorrow, how slow is your work, smith?” More to the point, in a place as crawling with their kind as this town was, it was only a matter of time before someone recognized their merry band and tried clapping them in iron.  
  
“My work and that of my kin is very fine indeed,” the dwarf said, glowering. “So fine, we've got a queue and you're at the back of it. If you'd prefer to find another to do the work, that's your own affair.”

“I prefer the skills of a dwarrow craftsman, but I won't wait two days for it,” Khim said.  
  
“You'll have them tomorrow,” an alto voice informed him. Ibun shifted appreciatively as he took in the fine dark hair, short-cut beard (grief again) and comely curves of the dwarrow lass. Even if the beard was not an indication of mourning, the tiny infant fussing in her arms and the older golden-haired babe, sleeping soundly in a sling tied round her back meant this must be the widowed sister. The townsfolk weren't joking about having the little ones close together, he didn't remember the last family he'd encountered who had children less than a decade apart.  
  
Her brother regarded her with an expression of extreme tenderness and agitation. “I thought we agreed you'd not be back to work until Kíli was a bit older. What are you doing here?”  
  
“Stretching my legs, bringing you lads lunch and sharpening a few knives isn't taxing,” his sister replied easily enough. She shifted the littlest one, keening now and whimpering so she could pick over the knives. “Matter of fact, I'll be through with this lot by the end of the day. Come by before we're closed or you can have them first thing in the morning.”  
  
The brother looked as if he dearly wanted to say something, but his eyes lingered on those little boys and he kept silence. Hard-pressed for cash then, Mim knew and he figured the brother would not be an easy sell. That big bloke in the back, though, hadn't looked up when the lass walked in, perhaps he was not so fond of this little family as all of that. And women could be so sentimental about their homes, surely this girl was missing a lot of things, all the moreso because her husband was dead...yes, Ibun would be the one to speak to her.  
  
Khim and the brother negotiated the price – his cousin could drive a hard bargain when he was ruffled. “I'd give you that much if I could have them in an hour, as I asked.”  
  
“You're getting them quicker than you should, by rights,” the smith scowled. “That ought to satisfy you.”  
  
“It doesn't,” Khim said flatly. “You've got my offer, you can take it or leave it.”  
  
The smith obviously wasn't adept at reading others, not like Mim was. He couldn't see that Khim wasn't about to go off and do his business elsewhere. Maybe if he wasn't so worried, about his sister and nephews (himself, surely, what dwarf doesn't worry about himself first and foremost?) he'd refuse, but he glanced again at his little family and agreed to the lower price – _oh_. And _there_ was the shame Mim expect to always hang low about him. Took awhile, but proud people always felt ashamed sooner or later in such situations.

The sister left them, gathering up the knives and depositing them in the back of the shop near the sharpening stones. She did not immediately get to work, instead she went just outside and sat on a stool in the summer sunshine. Ibun casually walked around the side of the building to light his pipe and happened to throw a shadow over the widow and her children. She seemed to take no notice, she just untied her tunic and held the babe to her breast to suckle. She hummed and fingered his dark hair idly, the tired, resigned expression that she wore when she spoke to her brother softening.  
  
“He's a bonny lad,” Ibun commented, smiling.  
  
“Thank you,” the lovely girl did not even raise her head to look at him. Women in mourning sometimes did that, acting shy when all they wanted was a bit of attention paid.  
  
“So's the other. Gold hair's lucky, you know?”  
  
She did not even verbally respond to that, so he tried another tactic.  
  
“Get it from his da, did he? And where's your husband this fine day?”  
  
“Six months dead,” she replied coolly. She did not raise her eyes with the pride of a dwarrow-wife whose husband fell in battle and name the number of enemies felled by his sword before he was taken from this earth. If she had, Ibun could have spun her a pretty lie about how her husband and he were brothers in arms, how he died so bravely and, oh, did he ever speak of _her_ at length! Well, there was still Erebor. Even if he sold her nothing, he'd not say no to a tumble with this handsome wench, profits be damned. There were some things (not many) that could make up for the loss of coin in his pocket.  
  
“Aw, now that's a shame. I am heartily sorry for you and your wee lads.”  
  
Once again, he did not receive a reply, only silence from the girl who seemed to have as much pride as her brother. There would likely be no tumbles from this one...'least not without a _lot_ of work and if there was one thing that was anathema to Ibun, it was hard work. Quite unlike his kinfolk in that regard, but it takes all sorts.   
  
Sidling up at her (since she was seated on a stool, she could hardly move away), he sighed and shook his head, continuing, “Must be hard, losing your husband and your home. Your people come from the Lonely Mountain, I hear? Terrible business, but...you would have only been a little slip of a thing, eh? When it happened?”  
  
She did look up now, but only because the little one on her back was up and twined his fingers in her thick hair and gave a tug. Without looking at Ibun, she deftly unfastened one of the bronze clasps she wore at the end of a braid and gave it to the little boy on her back. He gave a wordless crow of delight, played at opening and closing it and was content.  
  
“Lovely, that,” he observed. “Make it yourself? Or was it a present? I've got some little jewels of Erebor. Two sapphires that'd look lovely with your eyes. They come from a diadem worn by the Queen herself the day the dragon came. Worth a lot – then, I could be persuaded to sell 'em to you special, since I know your situation.”  
  
Blue eyes flashing, the girl stood and said, “I've half a mind to shove your companion's knives up your backside if you don't mind your tongue. You know _nothing_ of my 'situation.' Keep your fool thoughts in your head and leave me be.” With that, she stalked off to the heat and the smoke of the forge, finding that a more congenial environment than the sunshine and clean air out of doors.  
  
Ibun stood staring after her for a long moment when she was gone, pipeweed smoking in its bowl, so blown over was he that he forgot to puff. It had been so long since he'd been that thoroughly routed by a woman that he'd nearly forgotten the feeling. Felt like shame, something he'd not experienced in a good long while.

His companions laughed at him after. What did he expect? Dwarrow-women weren't naturally stupid, even grieving widows had some sense and did he really bring up her husband and her lost mountain in one breath? Even a lass that young would know she was being worked.  
  
You had to be tactful, Mim thought smugly to himself as he went round the smith's shop the next day to collect the knives since Khim flat out refused to speak to the arrogant bastard again.   
  
He let out a low whistle at the quality and admired the way they glinted in the sun. “Your sister's work?”  
  
The smith looked at him with suspicion for a moment before nodding.  
  
“Hardly took anything off, but got 'em sharp as a warg's fang all the same. That's some skill she's got.”  
  
The smith just glared at him, said nothing and held out his hand for payment. Now, Mim smiled behind his beard, _now_ he would show Khim how to work a poor, proud smith. “I know what my brother's price was,” he said, placing the knives back in the bolt of cloth they were wrapped in for transport. “But he was a bit stingy, wouldn't you say? Since the young lady got 'em so nice and sharp, even though you were swamped with work.”  
  
“I'll take what I am owed, the price he quoted yesterday,” the smith said quietly, but there was that shame again. He knew he was being undercut. Maybe he was just desperate enough...  
  
Leaning close, Mim reached deep within his pocket and pulled out a few battered gold rings that he lay between himself and the smith. “What d'you say we have a bit of a barter? These'll fetch you a good price, Erebor-made – I hear your people hail from there? Pulled from off old King Thrór on the battlefield of Azan - ”  
  
But the rest of his pitch went unheard as the young dwarf smith took hold of him by the lapels of his traveling coat and hissed in his face, “Take your worthless filth and get away from here. Either pay for our work or if you cannot, be gone without your knives.”  
  
The strength in the young dwarf's hands was undeniable and Mim knew then that this was a dwarf who _had_ killed and _had_ seen battle and would be like to kill again. Hastily, with fumbling fingers, Mim dropped a handful of bronze coins on the table and tried to regain his balance – this tall dwarf nearly swept him clean off his feet.  
  
“Er...right. I'll be off.” And so he was, clumsily gathering up the knives and leaving the rings – too worthless to be melted down, to be ground in the dirt under the heel of the smith's boot.  
  
After that encounter, Mim was eager to leave, but Khim had other ideas. “Let me just try to convince the big one to come on the road with us – if the brother and sister are such trolls, as you say, surely he's tired of their nonsense.”  
  
It seemed the big dwarf did indeed frequent the alehouses after a long day's work. Khim sidled up to him and began, “Those two you work with, are the damnedest - ” and that was as far as he got before a fist collided with the side of his head and his face became acquainted with the floor of the alehouse.

Bodies and pride bruised, the three set out on the road, never settling, making their way in the world through lies and thievery and threats, not giving much thought to the strange business in Ered Luin until one fateful day when they decided to pay a visit to the newly-restored kingdom of Erebor. Word was, King Thorin had given over some of the dragon Smaug's treasure hoard to Elves and Men. Surely some battle-weary dwarves deserved a bit of recompense for their actions agains the Orcs and wargs that day?  
  
It wasn't hard to fake battle scars if you had friends who were willing to rough you up a bit. Khim even drew a bit of blood with his knives (blunt again, he'd have to get them sharpened while they were in Erebor) to add to the authenticity. The Lonely Mountain was bustling, tents by the hundreds were set up to care for the wounded of the Iron Hills, Elves and Men moved about among the dwarves quite freely, a strange and tenuous truce there. The three limped pitifully up the walkway, unaware that a true warrior would not exaggerate his wounds or even apply to the king for restitution.  
  
There were a number of things about Erebor that would surprise them. The first was the the King Under the Mountain was not sitting atop his throne, but up and about, half-dressed bellowing orders despite a splinted leg and bandaged torso. The halls were in bad disarray and the royal family and courtiers were trying to make the place passably liveable again. The three stood awkwardly in a corner, Mim trying to place _why_ that shouting seemed familiar when a white-bearded old dwarf with a kind faced asked if there was anything he could do for them.  
  
“We, ah, well, we would like...” Mim was usually the talker in these situations, he had the sharpest wit of the three of them – but then a dwarf with the build of a boulder, tattooed, with a bald head made his way toward the shorter, older dwarf and his mouth fell open in unpleasant shock. That couldn't be the same dwarf who concussed Khim all those years ago...but who else could it be?  
  
It was with an unpleasant lurch in his stomach that Mim realized the warrior dwarf remembered them as well and not fondly if the look on his face and the murder in his eyes meant anything.  
  
“There you are!” a deep female voice rang out, clear as a bell. “Dwalin, is there anything for the lads to get up to that won't cause the mountain to come crashing down around our heads? Kíli claims they're more pained by boredom than their wounds.”  
  
She was just as beautiful as she'd been all those years ago, just as tall and proud and, if he could work his will, Mim would have the floor swallow up himself and his companions on the spot because her blue eyes locked on Ibun and a look of deepest disgust lined her lovely face. Immediately, she looked over her shoulder for her brother who limped over to their little group.  
  
“If Kíli and Fíli need something to do, tell 'em there's a century's dust that needs cleaning, they can start in their chambers,” the king said gruffly. Then, noticing the cringing trio inquired, “What's your business?”

Mim's mouth was dry and he thought for sure the king would make good on the promise of murder in his eyes so many decades ago, but with him, he saw no recognition. “Er...” he swallowed thickly. “Just. Bandages. For my...um.”  
  
“The healers should be making their rounds shortly, you can inquire of them,” he said, just as short and to-business in his speech as he'd been all those years ago.   
  
This time, Khim did not marvel at his insolence, only stood, knees knocking, wishing they'd never dreamed up this scheme. The big one and the lady stared at them a moment before exchanging a look between themselves and turning without a backward glance - though Ibun would swear later he heard the lady say, “For an moment there, I thought they'd demand their knives sharpened on the cheap.”  
  
The three suddenly made a miraculous recovery and sprinted out of Erebor's mighty halls, swearing up and down that they would never return to darken that doorstep again. “Who'd have thought, eh?” was all Ibun could say as they passed through Lake-town away from the Lonely Mountain. “What were they doing smithing, anyway? Durin's folk and all.”  
  
Mim shook his head. “Haven't any idea. You can never really know about people, can you?”  
  
“I thought the lady would give us away for sure,” Khim marveled, shaking his head. “Did you see the look on her face?” Nudging Ibun, he whistled, “Thought you were done for.”  
  
“I reckoned you'd have more trouble with that half-giant in furs,” Ibun replied. “Still haven't saved up enough gold to replace all the teeth he knocked out of your fat head, eh?”  
  
And on and on they bickered as they went on their way. One might hope this experience taught them humility or that they reformed their ways, but that would be a lie. Dwarves, as they say, are stubborn and bad habits, once settled bone-deep within them, tend to remain so embedded. The only lesson this trio of ne'er-do-wells took away was never to underpay a skilled dwarrow-smith, for one never knew when one might be stiffing a king in exile.


End file.
